Let Me Make Your Dreams Come True
by Nadin4400
Summary: A year after the incident, Claire asks Owen to come to Wisconsin with her because she never told her family about their breakup.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** _A while back, one of my favourite people, aka birdmacklin, asked me if I'd be willing to write something based off this mood board. There was no way I'd say no, so here we are! Honestly, just give me any excuse to write about the winter and snow, and I'm in :) This story was meant to be a one-shot, but before I knew it, it was 12k long, so I'll post it in 2 instalments because it's easier to edit it that way. The second part will be coming up sometime next weekend._

* * *

"You want me to do _what_?" Owen's eyebrow quirked like he wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

Claire gave him an even look. "You don't have to make it sound like I asked you to shoot a puppy."

He winced a little, but didn't break the eye contact, studying her from across the table, his coffee getting cold, untouched and forgotten.

They were sitting on an open patio outside a French café near Claire's office, and she knew that if _he_ was the one to summon _her_ for lunch after several months of complete radio silence, she'd have questions as well. Quite a few of them actually. Truth be told, she wasn't even sure she'd answer his phone call at all, and the fact that Owen definitely was a bigger person in this situation was rubbing her the wrong way right now.

Not that she could back out of having this conversation. He showed up, after all. She might as well used it to her advantage even though it didn't make it any less weird. At least he wasn't laughing at her. Yet. It was a start, all things considered.

"You're asking me to go to Madison with you," he said slowly as if needing to taste each syllable separately in his mouth in order to truly comprehend her request. Come to think of it, it would have been less surprising if she asked him to shoot a puppy. "To hang out with your family."

"Gray's science project won an award at the state Science Fair-" Claire started.

"Yeah, on bacterial transformation efficiency," Owen nodded.

She cleared her throat. "Yes, and Karen is taking the boys to a ski resort before Christmas. Zach's girlfriend is coming, too. And the guy Karen is seeing."

"And you want me to come with?" Owen repeated, the corners of his mouth curved with amusement.

Claire pursed her lips into a thin stubborn line, hating the idea that he was having an upper hand in this situation. It wasn't needing him that bothered her so much as his knowing that she did, which made her feel more vulnerable than she did in months and making her bite back the words she knew she would regret later. And did he _have_ to rub it in her face?

Then again, she'd probably do exactly the same, so she couldn't really blame him.

She wondered sometimes if the Universe would actually implode if one of them stepped back just once. The problem was, they couldn't both be right, or in control, or the best at everything at all times. Someone had to give. And each thought that that someone should be someone _else_ , even in the situation when it made no sense whatsoever.

Claire let out a slow breath and reminded herself that this was nothing but a business arrangement of sorts, and business arrangements she was good at. Hell, she was excellent. She was the best! And just because Owen Grady was involved didn't mean it was that much different from the contract she's signed yesterday with the stationery supplier. Except she sort of needed the paper clips more.

"Gray asked if you were coming," she said if a little unwillingly. "I promised to bring it up with you."

His smile fell, a mask he was hiding behind slipping momentarily. "Why haven't you told them?" He drummed his fingers against the saucer, still his ignoring his cappuccino. "It's been almost four months."

"Why haven't you?" She inquired, and the status quo shifted, she was gaining a momentum again, except instead of the anticipated triumph she expected to feel she was suddenly overcome with such deep wistfulness it was making it hard to breathe. Oddly enough, poking at each other with every chance they got stopped being entertaining and stated to feel like a cement block pressing down on her. "You know what his science project was about. It seems like you talk to them more than I do."

"They're your family, Claire," he reminded her and looked away, studying a steady flow of the office workers streaming past them on the way to or from their lunch breaks, all crisp shirts and pressed pants, jackets hanging from their elbows because even December in San Diego could feel like summer now and then, and this past week was treating them with the most gorgeous weather, undoubtedly the calm before the storm, aka the rain season that every Californian dreaded more than anything else in the world. Except traffic. And carbs. "It didn't seem appropriate."

Which actually was one hell of cop-out, but who was she to judge?

"It's not about us now, it's about Gray, and I don't want to upset him," she clasped her hands around her cup of latte, not sure what else to do with them and a bit too aware of the fact that her fingers were trembling. "It's only for a few days. If you have any Christmas plans, I'll make sure you come back here before then."

His mouth curled into a rueful half-smile that didn't touch his eyes, and Claire had to make an effort not to look away. It had been four months – _almost_ – and she couldn't believe that they felt both like only a few days and a decade at once. He looked the same, but different, and her mind struggled with the notion that the man who used to be everything to her not so long ago was barely a stranger now, the one she couldn't even talk without choosing every word like her life depended on it.

She was not used to feeling that way about Owen, of all people, and it was wrong in every way imaginable, awkward and weird and unnatural.

"So, you want me to go with you to Wisconsin and pretend we're still together?" Owen asked, and just like that, the wistfulness inside her was replaced with irritation. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I just kinda figured that you'd come up with some bullshit excuse and be done with it." He shrugged.

Her frown deepened, jaw clenching in frustration. "I did," she admitted flatly. "For Thanksgiving. Karen would come after me if I skipped this as well, and believe it or not, but it's easier to take you there than come clean and unleash the wrath of my family."

"Wow, this is the nicest thing you said to me since-"

"Will you do it or not?" She cut him off.

His eyes narrowed. "What's in it for me?"

Claire glowered at him. "Jesus Christ, Owen, I'm asking you for a favour, not to give me your kidney!"

"Like that time with that other favour?" He snorted.

"I wouldn't call a divorce _a favour_ ," she pointed out.

Owen conceded her words with a nod. "I wouldn't call it _asking_ , either."

And that was something Claire could agree with. The first thing in quite a while. A screaming demand was far more accurate, and she was being generous here. It was also the last time they actually spoke, which, in all honesty, didn't end that well anyway.

"Forget it," she muttered, digging into her purse in search for the wallet. She knew it was a waste of time, and making that goddamned phone call two days ago left her drained like she'd run a marathon. By the time she hung up the phone with Owen's promise to meet her in her pocket, she was shaking, her chest constricting painfully with every breath.

He had no right to still make her feel like this.

"Claire," Owen said when she put a $20 bill on the table, covering the check, and was about the leave. It wasn't even his voice so much as the way her name sounded in his mouth that made her look up. "When do we go?"

She studied his expression, uncertain of what she was looking for, half-convinced that he was joking. Wouldn't past it past him, truth be told. Yet, he looked earnest, and if a little weary around the edges, the lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered, like he wasn't sleeping well. He needed a haircut, too, she noted absently, hating herself for noticing, for knowing that he wasn't comfortable with his hair being much longer than now.

It was unfair that people could so easily walk out of your life, but the smallest details about them would stay behind forever to haunt you.

Claire paused, then nodded. "I'll have my assistant send you the tickets," she said at last, all business. This was something she could do in her sleep. If she was lucky, they'd be able to breeze right through this whole affair without even noticing it happened.

xoox

Clearly, she didn't think it through.

Focused on the bigger picture and more concerned about keeping the appearances, Claire – in a very un-Claire-like manner – overlooked a detail or two. Like the king-sized bed that was staring right back at her in the guest room in Karen's house that she and Owen were supposed to share. Because they were _supposed_ to be together. The plan was to drive to the cabin that was located some 50 miles outside of Madison and that actually belonged to Karen's ex-husband, Scott, in the morning, and so when Karen waved off Claire's suggestion to crash at some bed and breakfast for one night, the ramifications of said arrangement didn't hit her until it was too late.

When they arrived an hours ago, Gray barreled into her with the force and enthusiasm only a 12-year-old whose excitement of a puppy hadn't quite worn off yet would have, and it struck Claire how quickly he was growing. They talked a lot, trying to mend a long-broken relationship, but she'd only seen him a couple of times since the incident – for Zach's sophomore graduation, and when Karen brought both boys to California for Grays birthday in July, but the change didn't feel quite as drastic back then. He was almost as tall as she now, and before she knew it, he would be towering over her.

As of now, though, he was chatting a mile a minute, seemingly thinking that if he didn't fit the past few months in one sentence, they would disappear without a trace, and even Zach dropped his 'too cool for this world' attitude and pulled her into a bear hug. Right before both of them abandoned her to attach themselves to Owen – Claire suspected he'd have to surgically remove them. And then Karen was hugging them and thanking them for coming, and introducing Jeff, a man almost as tall as Owen, although slightly less buff who worked as a high-profile database administrator and who she'd met a few months ago at a corporate party. He had an open face and infectious laughter, and Claire could easily see what her sister found in him.

And it was all fun until Karen sent them to unpack, and the enormity of her glaring miscalculation slammed into Claire like a high-speed train.

"Cozy," Owen commented from over her shoulder, peeking into the room that featured cheery curtains on the window and an overall honeymoon-y feel to it.

She stifled a sigh, her mind reeling.

Meanwhile, Owen squeezed past her inside, seemingly filling what little space there was left there that wasn't occupied by the bed and dropped his bag on the floor by the chest of drawers before jumping up, twisting in midair, and flopping down on the mattress like he was 12 and on a sugar rush. He bounced a couple of times for good measure and then patted the spot beside him, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at her.

Claire sighed with pointed exasperation and stepped into the room, ignoring his sleazy proposition entirely – for the sake of her sanity, if nothing else. She set her small suitcase on the floor by the window and glanced outside at the backyard covered with snow. After the years she'd spent in a place where people didn't know what the snow looked like, being welcomed by the white blanket that stretched before her as far as her eyes could see was alien and odd, and surprisingly in-tune with what was starting to feel like the dumbest idea she'd ever had.

"You're enjoying this too much," she commented, turning to Owen who was still sprawled on her mother's patched quilt, looking like he was having the vacation of his life.

"Who wouldn't?" He inquired.

Claire folded her arms over her chest and regarded him grimly. "You know you're not sleeping here, right?"

He rolled onto his side and then sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "And where am I sleeping, pray tell?" Her eyes darted toward a loveseat tucked in the corner. He followed Claire's gaze and let out a bark of a laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"The floor is all yours, too," she offered generously, her voice uncompromising.

"I'm not sleeping on the floor in a place known for its sub-zero temperature," he pointed out. Cocked his head to his shoulder, his expression amused. "Are you really that worried you wouldn't be able to contain yourself around me?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Get over yourself."

"So what's the problem then? We shared a bed – and some other places," he made a dramatic pause, "for over six months. Doncha think we could handle it for one more night?" He was baiting her, and Claire knew that she was swallowing it, but it was too late. "What do you think I could possibly do?"

Well, _that_ wasn't the issue.

Their breakup was ugly, and the fact that they hadn't said a word to one another since he tossed roughly a hundred pairs of socks and an impressive collection of sportswear into a duffel bag and slammed the door on his way out, making the windows rattle in their frames spoke volumes. Claire was not in any way concerned about him so much as touching her. However, it was more about the shift of power than anything else. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of being right, and for petty reasons, too.

It was not what he could _do_ that bothered her so much as the memories his presence was going to bring up to the surface – all the things she was pushing out of her mind as best she could, filling the void with her job, and gym, and talking to her nephews on Skype, and a million tiny things in-between that added up to something big. As if he could somehow know that she was still sleeping in his shirt even though the sensible sweatpants and a top she brought on this trip suggested nothing of the kind.

"Alternatively," Owen continued when she didn't respond, misreading her silence for hesitation, " _you_ could sleep on that thing." He pointed at the loveseat. "Or you could ask your sister for a different arrangement, and if you do that – can I come with?"

Claire let out a slow breath. "What are you, 12?"

"Is that a yes?" He perked up.

"Stick to your side," she warned him in a voice that allowed no further arguments.

"You don't have to worry about that, Claire," he promised.

She hummed. "Why would I be worried?"

Claire expected a comeback – they never seemed to be in a short supply, as far as Owen was concerned. At times it felt like the world would never be complete unless he had a final say in every matter. Which led to some interesting debates in the past.

Instead, Owen hooked his index fingers through the belt loops of her jeans and yanked her to him, and before Claire knew what was happening, he was kissing her, his hands on her waist, holding her between his parted knees. Even sitting on the bed, he was almost as tall as she was standing up – granted, the bed had an elevated frame, but in all honesty, she didn't particularly care.

As a person with curious mind, Claire couldn't help but wonder sometimes about the intricate works of a human mind and why certain notions made more sense and stuck around while the others were dismissed and forgotten before they even had chance. Like what was the deal with comparing all the good things to sliced bread? Was it really that hard to cut a loaf of bread in consumable pieces? Frankly, she could think of about a thousand other things the invention of which was far more beneficial to the humankind. Or why did riding a bike become a universal equivalent to the skills that couldn't be forgotten once obtained? Was it possible to unlearn to drive a car or swim?

Alas, she knew that some of those things were meant to remain a mystery regardless of her opinion on the matter.

However, if she were to come up with something in her own life that was so firmly engrained in her mind she'd need several lifetimes to erase it, it would undoubtedly be kissing Owen Grady. He was her goddamned bicycle, and there was nothing she could do to change it whatsoever.

The moment Owen's mouth crashed against hers, Claire's mind stepped back and let her instincts run the show. The way someone who tripped would try to regain their balance, her body responded to his touch in the only way that made sense to it, and before she had a chance to process the _whys_ and the _hows_ , she was kissing him back. Owen pulled her closer to him, his hands roaming over her back and her shoulders, and she buried her fingers in his hair, eliciting a low growl of approval from him. He tasted the same, felt the same, and the mere memory of having his mouth everywhere else on her body sent a jolt of electric shock from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her lips parted, deepening the kiss—

Someone cleared their throat right behind them, and they jerked away from one another, both panting and bleary-eyed.

"Dinner's ready," Karen announced, struggling to bite back a smile, one eyebrow arched meaningfully, and it all suddenly made sense. Wrapped up in their exchange of insults, she completely missed her sister's footsteps on the stairs.

"Right," Claire muttered, feeling her cheeks grow hot for more reasons than she could count. "Be right over."

"I think we're selling it," Owen murmured as he followed her down the stairs a minute later, her lipstick still smudged over his mouth.

She cleared her throat. "Good call."

xoox

Claire thought she would not be able to fall asleep that night, what with all the adrenaline coursing through her system that was enough to power a small town and Owen sprawled over half of the bed while she scooted all the way to the very edge on her side, trying to keep as much space between them without actually falling to the floor. If her proximity bothered him as his did her, he certainly wed no sign of it, which she admired and envied and maybe hated just a tiny bit.

She turned her back to him, fluffed her pillow and tried to tune out the shifting of the mattress beneath her as Owen settled in his spot and a long breath he let out when the mission was accomplished. Squeezed her eyes tight for good measure, too, ignoring the burning sensation on her lips from the goddamned kiss and the way her fingers were still tingling from when he was playing with them over the dinner while having an effortless conversation with Jeff about fishing Gray about comic books. Except his presence felt more comforting than she anticipated, and despite her fears, it lulled her to sleep in no time.

Claire woke up to a single ray of sun that wedged itself into the room through the crack between the curtains beaning straight in her face, so bright it almost felt like it was trying to burn right through her retinae. She groaned in protest and buried her face in the pillow. It was still early. She had no idea what time it was, but it felt like she'd only closed her eyes five minutes ago, and so she snuggled deeper into the blankets, set on staying cocooned for another hour, or five.

Something moved behind her – something big, and warm, and decidedly male, if Claire's memory of waking up to one was any indication. Am arm flexed around her, a face nuzzled into her neck with a short, distinctive snore. She stilled, alarmed, and suddenly the memories of the precious day came rushing back in – the flight to Madison, a relatively uneventful dinner, and Owen in his Navy shirt and checked boxers emerging from their bathroom last night, smelling of toothpaste, his hair ruffled from changing. And now his whole body was wrapped around her as he snoozed away, or at least some parts of him did.

Her eyes snapped open as she nearly leaped into the air in her hasty attempt to move away from him, hitting Owen in the chin with her shoulder in the process. He fell on his back with a surprised _Ow!_

"What the hell, Claire?" He muttered with accusation, rubbing his eyes and then checking his jaw for any damage, which it sustained none.

"You… you were supposed to stay on your side," she hissed quickly, figuring out that it was the only way to address, ahem, the _issue_ without actually spelling it out.

Not that he needed her to. He glanced down and the looked up at her with a grimace. "I can't exactly control what's happening to me when I'm asleep."

"Not the point."

"So were you, by the way," he added.

She frowned, confused. "What?"

"You were supposed to stay on your side, too." His gaze darted toward the spot she'd vacated not a minute ago – stark in the middle of the bed, and try as she might, Claire couldn't argue with the glaring breach of their agreement.

She was still struggling with the response when the door swung open all of a sudden, startling them both, and Gray burst inside, buzzing with nervous energy.

"Aunt Claire! Owen!"

"Jesus, Gray…" Claire pressed a hand to her chest. "What happened to knocking? What if we were…" She faltered. What if they were _what_? There was no way in hell they could be doing anything PG13, let alone something R-rated. "What if we were sleeping?" She finished, a bit more aware of Owen's curiosity about where she might go with this.

He chuckled under his breath and pretended to cover it with a cough. However, the boy ignored her flustered face and a slight tremor in her voice in his own agitated state.

"We have to go!" He announced.

Owen covered his face with his hands and collapsed back on the pillows. "Where?"

"There's a storm coming and we have to get to the cabin before it hits the town," Gray explained.

Claire glanced outside the window where the sun was shining high up in the bright blue sky, streaked with a few wispy clouds that in no way indicated any possibility of a bad weather. "I think we're good," she said, trying to smooth down her tousled hair.

"But they said so," the boy insisted.

"Okay, okay, we're up," Owen groaned. "Ten minutes to get dressed, deal?"

"This is ridiculous," Claire breathed out when the door closed behind Gray and rubbed her eyes.

"You really want to go down _that_ road?" He inquired.

No, she did not. Arguing with Gray once he got something in his head was useless, fruitless, and a waste of time. It was like trying to stop a place that was about to take off by jumping in front of it – there was no way to avoid the casualties.

"Getting dressed it is," she agreed. "Dibs on the shower!"

xoox

The breakfast was a ridiculously fun affair, with a foot-tall stack of toast and pancakes that Owen was flipping by throwing them up in the air and catching them with admirable precision, bowing theatrically every time someone clapped, and someone always did. There was syrup everywhere, and jars of jam, and half-hearted bickering over cutlery and who took whose plate and why was the coffee pot empty again?

Claire was watching them from her spot near the counter as she sipped her coffee and not even trying to follow roughly a dozen conversations happening at the same time, the words tossed around and then forgotten instantly, the chatter filling every nook and corner of the house. And if she pretended hard enough, she could almost feel the normalcy of this morning seep into her very bones, the lies stitched into her words no tasting as bitter as before.

"There you are," Owen appeared by her side with two plates of pancakes. His – Claire presumed – also sported a healthy helping of crispy bacon and a scoop of scrambles eggs. A growing boy through and through. Hers was drowning in syrup with a handful of berries sprinkled on top.

"I'm good," she shook her head, watching Zach and Gray fight over something or the other. "Not really hungry."

"Come on," he leaned against the counter next to her and put the plate down. "You never said no to the infamous Grady pancakes before."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, her stomach still in knots over their earlier confrontation, and even more so over the rest of the trip that hadn't even started yet, technically speaking. Yet, this was certainly not the kind of argument that was worthy of her time, and he was right – Owen Grady was nothing but not a good cook. She was still processing this discovery, truth be told. So she nodded her thank you and picked up the plate, taking note of him remembering that she preferred blueberries over cherries (ad hated whipped cream). And they were some damn good pancakes, too, melting on her tongue exactly the way Claire remembered.

They ate standing side by side while Gray explained his science project to them for probably the 11th time since last night, which wasn't a bad thing because she only understood maybe half of the words he was saying. The kid was probably smarter than all of them combined, and the thought filled her with fierce, overwhelming pride. He flashed a grin at her, and Claire found herself winking in response, happier to be here than she expected.

"Hey, you have something…" Owen started, pulling her out of her thoughts. She turned to him and he jerked his chin, pointed at something on her face. "Here, let me."

Claire thought he was going to brush a crumb off her cheek. Instead, he lifted her chin and leaned in to brush a feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth, his breath warm on her face. She went still, nearly holding her breath, and knowing that all this was for the benefit of the audience didn't make it any less… well, _real_. Somehow.

"Syrup," he murmured, catching her gaze, his face still just a breath away from hers.

"Get a room," Zach snorted from the table.

"Zach!" Karen gasped, then gave her sister and Owen a once-over and rolled her eyes. "Get a room."

And Gray might have been crazy smart, but his attempt to hide behind his mug of hot chocolate while shaking with silent laughter was as lousy as it could be.

And then they were loading in the cars, and Claire was slammed in the face with the flashbacks to every trip she and Karen went on with their parents in the first 16 or so years of her life, listening to the same bloody arguments over what goes where and could someone please check if the oven was off.

She hoped that maybe one of the boys would join her and Owen and maybe help dilute the tension between them, but Zach announced that he was not sharing a car with his brother, and he and his girlfriend – Stacey? Gracie? – climbed into Jeff's SUV which was the roomiest. Karen then claimed that Gray was riding with her because she was not driving 50 miles by herself, which ultimately left Claire and Owen alone, albeit with their food supplies, crammed into the back seat.

This was going to be a fun ride.

The cabin was sitting hallway up one of the mountains north of the city, a few miles away from one of the ski resorts the area was known for. Roughly an hour or so away, depending on the weather and road conditions, and by the time they finished the breakfast and piled into their respective vehicles after roughly fifteen fights over nothing, the wind picked up and heavy clouds started to creep in on them from the east, and Gray was ushering everyone like spending the weekend in the mountains was a matter of life and death.

With a wistful sigh, she waved at him a moment before he climbed into Karen's car and then finally slipped in the passenger seat of her and Owen's, still trying to shake off the cold hand of panic that was holding her in its grip.

The first ten minutes were almost tolerable. The traffic was distracting enough to keep Claire's mind occupied as she guided Owen toward the outskirts of town, following the roads only a native would know to think of at all, and then she spent ten minutes more fiddling with the radio, which she didn't care about at all, but at least it gave her something to focus on. Something that wasn't the proximity to the man who was a human equivalent of a freight train that ran over her a few times in the past couple of days.

She tried to stay focused on the conference call she was having right after the holidays, going through her mental to-do list because it was something that kept her grounded and focused, in control of the reality that seemed to be slipping right through her fingers ever since they boarded the plane heading north last afternoon. And the most important thing was that her work matters had nothing to do with Owen, which was a welcome relief. However, her mind kept going back to the last trip to Madison they made together, a couple of months before the shit hit the fan in that spectacular way from which there was no coming back from.

Back then, Claire mused, their silences weren't quite as thick, if possible at all, and she was content to watch the town go by without the overwhelming need to jump out of the moving vehicle for so many reasons that she didn't even know where they began. Back then, the air was always filled with the words that didn't have to have any meaning at all, Owen's fingers perpetually laced through hers, his thumb running over the back of her hand in the mindless, absent circles that made her heart feel too full for her chest.

The radio coughed and crackled with static, fading in and out of the coverage zone, and after trying to find a station that worked better than the rest of them, Claire gave up and turned it off. She could have – and _should_ have – swapped places with Gray, she was thinking now, tell Karen she needed a sister catch-up time and stick the boy with Owen, which would probably make all of them much happier than their current arrangement. She wouldn't even mind her sister's invasive questions because after roughly two decades of practice, she most definitely mastered the art of deflecting each and every single one of them while making it look like she'd actually answered.

"You didn't tell them about us," Owen said after a few minutes, and the suddenness of his words didn't even register with her for a moment or two.

"Pardon me?" She looked at him, confused.

Owen glanced at her, his shoulders rolling in a half-shrug. "They don't know."

Claire arched an eyebrow. "I thought we already covered that," she reminded him.

"Not that. That we were married."

She bit her lip and turned away. "We were not married, Owen. We got drunk in Vegas, and if memory serves me right, it was either that, or getting matching tattoos. As luck would have it, we found that pseudo-chapel first. There's nothing more to it."

"There was nothing pseudo about it," he countered.

There wasn't indeed, although for a solid two hours the next morning she mentally begged and prayed that there was, studying the marriage certificate that they were issued and trying to find something reassuring, maybe a footnote in small print claiming that it was a joke and please don't get so hammered in the future. She'd barely touched anything stronger than lemonade since, which in retrospect wasn't that thing at all, but still!

"Which is the problem," she pointed out. "How is it even legal to offer this service to the people who clearly have no idea what they are doing? Jesus, if it wasn't for that goddamned certificate, we wouldn't even _know_ it happened the next morning."

He shot her an amused look out of the corner of his eye. "Give me some credit, Claire."

"Please, like you even remember how it happened."

"I do actually."

She whipped her head around, skeptical. That weekend in Vegas was an impromptu thing, and even though the decision was made while they were both sober, she couldn't for the life of her remember how they settled on it. What she did remember was a long ride and the glimmering lights of the hotels and casinos on the Strip, and it felt like magic because once the investigation of the incident was over, everything felt that way – brand new and unreal.

They spend most of the Saturday roaming around and debating the pros and cos of actually trying the casinos. Owen insisted that the beginners' luck was on their side while she remained unconvinced, no longer considering herself lucky in any way whatsoever. It was hard to think of the world that way after she'd inadvertently caused something close to a thousand deaths.

They settled on stopping by a bar and maybe going back to that conversation later.

The rest of the night was a huge grey smudge in her memory, until Claire woke up the next day around noon with her head pounding and her mouth tasting like someone died in it, and Owen snoring by her side. The first thing she saw on the bedside table when she reached for her phone to check the time was a piece of A4 paper stating that Mr. Owen Grady and Ms. Claire Dearing…

Her vision blurred, and she bolted for the bathroom, barely making it there on time before she threw up, which, in all honesty, was most definitely a result of having roughly a gallon more of tequila than she should have had, ever. It took her the rest of the day and several handfuls of Tylenol to piece together random bits and pieces of the previous night in her head, and even then, the only thing Claire was certain of was that they didn't end up with empty bank accounts so at some point, the casino must have been taken off the table altogether.

"You do not," she scoffed.

He smirked. "I do, too. You have a very funny way of… um, signing things."

"You've seen my signature a million times before," she countered.

"It's more about the way your hand moves…" He trailed off, his eyes on the road and a small smile playing across his lips. "You wanted to dance in the fountain afterwards."

Claire opened her mouth and closed it again. It was not a memory so much as a sensation she couldn't quite place. She couldn't see herself do it, couldn't imagine climbing into the fountain and… what? Shaking her hips? Jesus… But she could quite easily assume that she might want to. Besides, if he wasn't actively thinking about it for the past few hours, Claire couldn't imagine him saying that just off the top of his head.

"Did we? I mean… dance in the fountain?" She asked with resignation, mentally preparing herself for the idea that somewhere in the depths of the Internet there might be a photo of her doing just that because some tourist couldn't help but pull out his camera when a crazy drunk lady climbed manically into a street decoration.

Owen chuckled. "No, we didn't, I don't think so."

Claire wrapped her jacket tighter around herself even though the heater was blasting the waves of hot air right in her face, having a hard time wrapping her head around the person she was that day. The one who decidedly wasn't _her_.

"For what it's worth," Owen added as an afterthought, "I'm glad to be here." He darted a quick glance at her, reading the confusion on Claire's face. "Glad you brought me along," he explained, even though the words still had some trouble registering with her. Like he was speaking another language, the one she couldn't understand.

Claire nodded, still searching for a response that didn't go along the lines of _Are you out of your mind?_ when her phone exploded with a series of persistent chimes. Saved by the bell, she thought. Or something like that.

"Hey, Karen," Claire breathed out into the receiver, grateful for the interruption. "Everything okay?"

" _Yeah, we're just_ …." Her answer was swallowed by the sounds of a video game or something of that kind. " _Gray, please. Sorry_ ," this one was for Claire. " _No, we're fine, but Gray forgot something at home_." Gray's voice cut through for a second but Claire failed to catch what he was saying. " _We're going back, it shouldn't take long. Just a heads up. And Jeff will stop by the supermarket_."

Claire glanced over her shoulder at the bags and boxes that were taking up most of the car, pushing against the backs of their seats. To a side observer, it would probably look like they were moving into that cabin until spring, not going there for three days.

"I thought we had all the food we needed," she said, puzzled.

" _I know, I know, but Zach decided they wanted snacks or some specific brand of cereal, or whatever. Trust me, it's easier to just get it than deal with the sulking for god knows how long_."

"Okay." Claire turned to Owen who was throwing curious glances in her direction. "Do you want us to pull over and wait for you?"

" _What? No, of course not. Go ahead, we'll be maybe half an hour behind. Gray, take your feet off the dashboard!_ " More mumbling. " _Seriously_." Karen huffed. " _Anyway, the place is probably freezing, but there should be wood on the back porch, and if you could get the fire started…_ "

"Sure," Claire nodded even though her sister couldn't see her. "See you soon."

She hung up and passed the message to Owen who acknowledged it with a quirk of his eyebrows as he turned off the freeway and into one of the roads heading toward the resorts scattered all over the steep slopes. And it was only then that Claire noticed that it started to snow, pale snowflakes swirling in the wind and melting on the windshield of their rented Honda. The sky grew grey and heavy, the clouds hanging low and brushing against the treetops.

By the time they turned onto the side road again, it was snowing in earnest – so much so that when Owen rolled to a stop at last, the GPS finally announcing that they reached their destination, Claire could barely see past the hood of the car.

"Looks like Gray was onto something," Owen commented more to himself than to her and pushed the door open.

"He usually is," Claire echoed, following him into the world made entirely of white.

The cabin was just that – a cabin. Four walls with a bedroom and a kitchen tucked in the back, the rest of the space taken by the living room with two skylights in the ceiling that had been added not so long ago when Scott decided to renovate the place to use it more frequently. There was no heating here, of course, but the fireplace and a power generator provided comfortable enough conditions for winter visits, and one of the ski resort was a stone's throw away with their chair lifts, overpriced hot chocolate and impeccable slopes.

The last time Claire came here was nearly a decade ago, if she was not mistaken, and she was surprised to see how little the place had changed. Sure, the window frames were replaced and some other minor adjustments were made, like a fresh coat of paint on the cabinets in the kitchen, but it looked strikingly unchanged although in all honesty, Claire completely forgot about this place until Karen mentioned it a few weeks ago.

It was freezing, like her sister suggested, and Claire shivered in her puffed jacket, her breath coming out in white clouds even in the living room.

Barely speaking, they left the food piled on the kitchen counter and Owen busied himself with the fireplace, poking and prodding at the logs until the spark caught on, the wood glowing bright orange in the darkened room, while Claire turned on the power generator, bringing the overhead lights to life. It was barely past midday, but the weather that kept getting progressively worse made it feel like it was the late afternoon already, dark and gloomy.

Owen rubbed his hands together, then held them close to the glowing fire to keep the blood circulation going before standing up and taking in the place properly. Claire watched him scan the faded couch and a half empty bookshelf housing some novels, magazines and – oh, horror! – VHS tapes that were left behind over the years because they were nowhere near interesting enough for anyone to care to grab them on the way back home, his gaze skimming over the dining table and the kitchen counters and cupboards visible from his spot. There was an old rug on the floor between the couch and the fireplace and several more mismatched ones covering seemingly random spots of the hardwood floor here and there.

He caught her looking at him, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly in acknowledgement. The fridge sputtered and coughed in the kitchen, startling them both for a moment before it settled into a low hum, and it was that sound that set them in motion again.

The curtains were pulled open and the food was arranged in the fridge and on the shelves. Claire grabbed her suitcase that was sitting by the door and found a pair of wool socks, uncertain of where to leave the rest of her stuff. The place was small and the general plan was to put Karen and Jeff in the bedroom, Claire and Owen on the pullout couch, and the kids in sleeping bags on the floor. Which basically allowed for no wardrobe space, she figured. Still, she found her toiletries and left them in the bathroom while Owen fiddled with the TV and the VHS player seeing at how no one ever bothered to get cable for this place.

So far, she noted, the tension was thick enough to cut it with the knife and their seemingly joking conversation in the car amounted to nothing in the end. She wondered if he even noticed that both of them were trying to keep as much distance from one another as humanly possible, taking several extra steps here and there so as not to pass too close to each other.

Claire was in the middle of looking for extra blankets in the built-in closet in the hallway in case they needed them later when her phone went off, Karen's face flashing on the screen.

"Hey, where are you?" Claire asked in lieu of a greeting, noticing that her frozen toes started to thaw.

" _Where are **we**? Where are **you**?_ " Karen demanded.

Blankets forgotten, Claire took a step back, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Is this a joke?"

" _Did they let you through?_ "

"Did who let us through? What's going on, Karen?"

" _The roadblock. They closed the roads because of the storm. No one is allowed in or out until the weather improves_."

Claire waited for the punchline. And then waited some more. And then she started to hope that she would wake up and all of this would go away.

She glanced across the room and found Owen looking at her. He was standing completely still, his eyebrows knitted together as if he could hear both sides of the conversation, or maybe even hear the panic rising inside her in tidal waves. Although the latter he could have easily picked up from her expression, perhaps.

"What do you mean, no in or out?"

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Please let me know what you think! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note** : _Okay, I promised to post the second part this weekend, so here it is!_

 _Thank you so much for the wonderful feedback on the first part of this story, guys! It was a lot of fun to work on and I'm glad you've enjoyed it :) I don't do well with one-shots, it seems, they always turn out being 10 miles (or 16k, in this case) long. (No regrets, though!)_

* * *

There was a long pause on the line, interrupted by Gray's faint chatter and Zach's one-word responses – apparently they reunited somehow, and the irony of it wasn't lost on Claire. Then Karen said something to someone else, her voice muffled as she pulled the phone away from her face.

"Karen?"

" _The road is closed until the snow is over. There was apparently a massive accident_ -" She cut off. " _Are you alright?_ "

Was she?

Quite frankly, all things considered, she was anything but, and the reality of their terrible situation was making her sick to her stomach. The storm could last a few days, maybe even more in the mountains. They were in Wisconsin, for crying out loud. For all she knew, they could be stuck here for weeks.

Jesus Christ, she was snowed in in the middle of nowhere with none other than Owen Grady.

She was decidedly not alright, Claire thought. Not in the slightest. However, it was not something she could possibly mention to her sister. If anything, from Karen's perspective Claire had nothing to complain about, and of all the things that might have backfired during this trip, this was the one that she expected least.

Claire gripped her phone until it was digging do hard into her palm it hurt. "Yes. We're fine."

She hung up after promising to stay safe and be in touch and caught Owen up on what she learned from Karen, his frown deepening the longer she spoke, his eyes darting involuntarily toward the window now and then behind which the wind was throwing angry fistfuls of snow against the glass panes and howling in the chimney, his face just as stormy.

"This is ridiculous," Claire huffed in frustration, running her hand through her hair, her stomach in knots. "They can't just…" Her teeth dug into her bottom lip as the gears in her head started to spin. Claire turned to him. "By how long did we miss that window? Fifteen minutes? We could go back, try to…"

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as if he was trying to see past the veneer of her irritation. "Do you really think it's a good idea?" He asked at last in a practical tone, setting her teeth on edge. A part of her wanted him to be as outraged as she was.

"Do you really want to be stuck here for god knows how long? If there is a chance to avoid that, doesn't it make sense to take it?" She arched an eyebrow – a challenge she knew he would fall for.

He didn't.

"It's hardly a matter of wanting, Claire," Owen pointed out. His features hardened, a cloud passing over them. "Would you honestly rather freeze to death than stay here with me?"

The bluntness of the question rendered her speechless for a long moment.

Claire didn't make a secret out of being more than a little uncomfortable around him for a number of reasons, knowing that the feeling was very much mutual. However, dancing around it was one thing, but having the words thrown at her like that felt odd, and chagrined under his scrutiny, she felt her cheeks grow hot. Because yes, she would much rather run barefoot through the snow storm rather than spend another ten minutes in this room where the air was so charged she feared the whole house would go up in flames any moment now. Hell, if they were on the plane, she'd grab a parachute and catapult herself _the hell_ out of it.

For a flicker of a moment, it was tempting – so damn tempting – to throw these responses at him, the words he was daring her to say out loud because he did it and he sure as hell had no desire to be in that boat alone.

Instead, Claire raised her chin and gave him a measured look, trying to think and hopefully sound as logical as he did. "So, what do you suggest we do?" A dare thrown back at him.

Owen stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and glanced around. In the knitted sweater that she guessed he bought specifically for the trip because the man maybe saw the snow twice in his life and there certainly was no need for this kind of wear in California, he somehow looked even bigger, more massive, invading her personal space even from a fifteen feet away, making her wonder if he could see it, or feel it with his skin the way she did.

If he did, though, he showed no sign of it. Instead, Owen offered her a nonchalant shrug. "How do you feel 'bout spaghetti with hotdogs?"

xoox

Claire wasn't hungry, but there wasn't much else to do and while cooking wasn't her forte, per se, or something she enjoyed, it gave her something to focus on for a while, which was a step up from pacing around the place like a caged animal. Anything to keep her distracted, really.

They ate and watched _Police Academy 2_ , choosing to save _Die Hard_ and _Pulp Fiction_ for later while the day grew progressively darker outside, the wind making the windows rattle in their frames, trying to find the cracks to sneak inside the house. Curled into a ball in the corner of the couch, her knees drawn up and a quilt pulled over them for warmth, Claire stared unseeingly at the screen, the story not registering with her in the slightest and purposely ignoring the man sitting a cushion away from her, doing the same.

She had checked in with Karen a couple of times and talked to Gray who was devastated over this unfortunate turn of events.

"I bet he'd be happy to be here," Owen commented after she finished the Facetime call with the boy.

Claire put her phone away without looking at him. "Only because he is not," she responded flatly and chose to leave it at that.

She wished she'd brought her laptop with her. And her entire library, come to think of it. Claire Dearing was not used to being bored, her restlessness seemingly seeping out of her very pores and hanging around her like a cloak. It was an odd feeling, alien and uncomfortable, the one that was making her feel like she wanted to crawl out of her skin.

She picked up her empty plate and carried it to the kitchen, peeking outside the window over the sink into the jet-black night and the frantic dance of the snowflakes in the light spilling outside from between the curtains. It struck her then just what exactly felt so eerie and out of place, something she couldn't quite put her finger on at first – the silence all around them. Sure, there was the TV and the low hum of the power generator, the soft rumble of the fridge and the creaking of the old floorboards. But there was no traffic, no voices coming from the street, no music or the ever present sounds of life, and even the howling of the wind somehow added to it rather than making it less pressing.

Claire shivered and pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. It wasn't quite as chilly as when they'd first arrived, but the place was drafty, and roughly a decade of not dealing with the winter altogether made it feel even less comfortable.

"You still cold?" Owen appeared right behind her with his own plate and glass, and she nearly leaped into the air at the sound of his voice near her ear and the touch of his breath to her cheek.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another so as to move away from him in the subtlest way possible. "It's freezing," she muttered.

If he noticed or sensed her tension, he showed no sign of it. Quite frankly, if Claire didn't see the way his jaw twitched now and then, she'd almost believe he was enjoying their impromptu confinement. Admittedly, Owen Grady was better with adapting to changes, although knowing it didn't make it any less infuriating.

Meanwhile, Owen shrugged off the hoodie with the Navy logo on the back that he'd swapped his grandpa sweater for an hour ago and draped it over her shoulders.

"I'm fine," Claire started to protest, stiffening momentarily.

" _Now_ you are," he corrected. "Sometimes a simple thank you is enough, you know. You should try it"

She frowned. "Why are you doing this?"

He arched an eyebrow. "It's a shirt. I'm offering you my kidney."

"No, I mean…" She faltered. "Coming here. Why did you do it, Owen?" The question was bugging her for quite a while now. Particularly because, try as she might, she couldn't find the desire to run away in his eyes. The one she knew for a fact he could see in hers. "I had to ask, you didn't have to say yes."

He sighed and looked away. "Because I couldn't remember."

Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "Couldn't remember what?"

"What that fight was about. The one that ended everything."

He might have as well sucker punched her, so fast all winds was knocked out of her body.

"Just like that?"

"Why?" He turned to her again, a humorless not-quite-smile touching his lips and disappearing just as quickly. "'Cause I was supposed to stop caring?"

For a long moment, Claire simply stared at him, her mind spinning. And then she let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh that made him flinch.

"When did you _start_?"

She pushed past him and headed back into the living room.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Owen demanded, following her, his voice quivering with disbelief and barely suppressed anger.

Claire grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched the TV off, certain that if she'd hear another corny joke from the 80's, she lose her mind. Tossed it onto the couch, regretting it immediately when she realized that without the damned movie, it was just her and Owen, and the unspoken words that were threatening to shred them to pieces.

"Please. You wanted an out, and I gave it to you."

"You told me to get lost," he countered.

She snapped her head up, eyes blazing. "For heaven's sake, Owen! We had a fight and you moved out before it was over. You needed an excuse to do it, and that's all there ever was to it."

He sneered. "How did you even notice I was gone when you were so busy drafting the divorce papers?"

"I had a professional do that, thank you very much," she snorted, arms folded over her chest. Like Claire Dearing would ever risk making a mistake in something as crucial as divorce papers!

"Right. Why'd you even bother with such a nuisance?" He retorted snidely.

"Why would I indeed?" She mimed him. "What was her name, Owen? Amber? Crystal? Some other gem stone?"

His jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on. I saw that text. Her asking if the coffee was still on."

"Jewel," he blurted out, and Claire snickered.

"Well, thank god _you_ remember."

"Jesus, Claire, she was interested, I was not. Nothing ever happened." He let out a sharp breath, staring at her like he couldn't recognize her. "I can't believe you actually thought I was cheating on you." A pause. "Why didn't you… why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I didn't want to hear the answer," she shook her head, and then grabbed the car keys from the shelf. "We should have left hours ago while we still could."

Regardless. If she couldn't drive, she could sleep in the car. Anything seemed like a better alternative to staying here. Her chest constricted, her throat tight. If she didn't get out of this place right this moment, she would either suffocate or combust, and to be honest, neither looked particularly appealing.

Claire reached for the knob, her mind on fire, the cool air sneaking inside the cabin through the crack underneath the door, smelling of the cold and snow and pine. If she couldn't drive, she could sleep in the damned car. Even freezing to death wasn't that bad a prospect, come to think of it. However, Owen crossed the room in two strides, slamming the door before she had a chance to yank it open, and when she turned around, she found herself trapped, the palm of his hand resting on the on the door near her head and his face barely two inches from hers.

There was only a handful of times she'd seen him so furious. As a rule, the man knew how to keep his inner beast in check and be in control of his emotions. He used to train Velociraptors for a living, for Christ's sake! She honestly couldn't imagine a job least suitable for anyone with a temper. Not in their line of work, at least.

She certainly never saw him be so mad at _her_.

"You always thought we wouldn't last, Claire," he said in a low, measured voice that cracked ever so slightly, making his pause. "I merely saved you from the drag that our relationship was to you, so I don't really see what you have to complain about."

Claire swallowed, the keys she was clutching tightly in her hand digging painfully into the flesh of her palm.

"I am not the one who walked away, Owen," she whispered.

He deflated visibly, at a loss for words.

"There always was only you." His eyes roamed around her face, looking for the answers she wasn't sure were there. "What are you so scared of?" Owen mouthed soundlessly.

In the semi-darkness barely dispersed by the faint light of the reading lamp near the couch, his face was streaked with shadows, his breathing short.

It was funny, really, how when one of the senses was deprived, the others always seemed to sharpen, becoming nearly overwhelming at times. She could barely see him, his face nothing but a smudge in semi-darkness, but she could hear the rapid thumping of his heartbeat, feel his nearness in the tingling of her skin, smell his aftershave and a faint scent of the Ocean Breeze fabric softener on his clothes, yearning to taste him.

Claire wasn't certain which one of them moved first, but one moment, she was contemplating the merits of melting through the door, and the next his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her hungrily and desperately, pressing her against the of wood behind which the evening was so cold and harsh and nippy it was seeping inside through the walls and several layers of insulation, adamant to get to them.

Owen buried his fingers in her hair, lifted her face up, his lips pushing hers apart, earning a low sound of acceptance from Claire. His hoodie slid off her shoulders and hit the floor when she grabbed his shirt, bunching it in her fingers to pull herself up, closer to him, the contrast between the cold door against her back and the heat of his body making her shiver uncontrollably.

He felt the shift in her, a brief moment of hesitation dissolving into nothingness. For as long as he knew her, Claire had her check lists and agendas, wearing them like a shield, her whole life nothing but a series of carefully calculated steps and detailed plans because it was what she did to keep her balance. She was good at that, at keeping the things in their tiny boxes, her world compartmentalized. Right now, though, he could feel her armour shatter, the layers peeling off and falling at their feet.

And he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe he'd gone for months without feeling her. It hadn't occurred to him that he needed her more than the air to breathe until he was suffocating in the one-bedroom apartment furnished with the second-hand Ikea junk, his fingers itching to dial her number to hear her voice, not unlike a drug addict without a fix. He kept trying to figure out what went wrong and if there was a way to mend it, turning the old words in his head and searching for the new ones. Before that, he'd never know the silence could be so loud and the absence so palpable.

But now his hands were full of Claire, filling the cracks and crevices of longing with everything that she was, the warmth of her mouth against his going straight to his center. Her hand curved over the back of his neck, and his palm slipped around her waist as he drew away, panting and dizzy, her equally ragged breath tickling his chin as the words swirled in his head, none of them lingering long enough to register with him properly.

And then it was her turn to stretch up and claim his lips with her, a demand, not a request. Her desire ricocheted through him, the only invitation he needed. He collided into her, his awareness tunneling, hands roaming hungrily over her body. Five steps to the couch with Claire gathered in his arms, their mouths meeting in shallow, hasty kisses. A slight miscalculation, and they slid to the floor, Owen's back pressed into the cushion, her delicious weight in his lap and her legs on either side of his.

Her fingers slipped into the collar of his shirt and around his neck as he trailed his mouth across her cheek and along her jaw, his stubble scratching her skin and firing up her blood, the memories pooling as a warm, tight glow in her belly, the anticipation of pleasure blurring the edges of her world. She tugged at his shirt and he pulled it over his head, his hands finding their way underneath her sweater and pushing it up and off, fingers snaking into the waistband her pants. Claire's breath hitched, nails scarping down his chest and skimming over the fine map of scars lining his skin.

"Do we need to stop?" He asked in a low, hoarse voice that drowned in the hammering of blood in his ears.

She shook her head. Cupped s face with her palms and tilted it to kiss him, drinking him, the fire simmering inside her spilling from her fingertips. He pushed a bra strap down her shoulder, hot mouth on her skin, inching toward the rosy peak of her breast. The cream lace peeled away easily, his thumb playing with her nipple, coaxing a moan of encouragement from Claire with every move – the sound that was making him crazy. His lips on the spot beneath her earlobe, Owen pushed her down, covering her with his body, breaking the fall and spreading her beneath him. He pulled away to find her gaze, glazed over with want, her chest heaving, lips parted. She'd never looked more beautiful.

Claire's eyes dropped shut when he pressed his mouth to her collar bone, marking his way down her body with slow, open-mouthed kisses, a path between her breasts and toward her belly, nuzzling into the silky skin between her hipbones as his fingers snapped the button of her pans open. She gasped when the cool air touched her thighs, the soft sound that morphed into something primal when his hand traced the waistband of her panties before slipping underneath it, his fingers running over the spot where she want to feel him the most.

She heard the rustling of the fabric, his jeans hitting the floor with a soundless thump – a brief pause that left her wild with need, her hips rising of their own volition, pleading for more. And then he was kissing her again, pushing her lips apart as his tongue darted past her teeth and Claire's hand splayed flat on his chest, savoring the force of his desire. She could feel him hard on her hip, so very close.

And then…

"Shit," Owen cursed and drew back, his forehead resting against her cheek. Claire could feel his eyelashes flutter on her skin, his breath falling on her shoulder making her shiver.

"Owen?"

"I don't have… I didn't bring…" He trailed off on a shuddered inhale. She heard him swallow, his fingers curled into a fist around a handful of her hair, flexing with every heartbeat.

She turned, reached for his face, her nose bumping against his and her skin burning where it was touching his. "The pill," she murmured. "Have you…." Her gaze dropped to his chin, the question she didn't know how to ask and wasn't sure she wanted to hear an answer to sour on her tongue as her thumb drew slow circled over his scruff. "Have you, ah… been with-with anyone? You know, after…?"

He blinked, confused, his mouth stretching at the corners and a light laugh bubbling up in is throat, the relief so powerful it was tangible washing over him and into her, echoing deep in Claire's core. "No."

She nodded faintly, watching his eyes grow dark, and suddenly nothing was funny anymore, her heart skipping a beat, and then another. He pushed her panties down her hips and out of the way, the only piece of clothing standing between her and heaven, and braced his knee between hers. His hand clasped around her wrist as he drew it above her head.

"Look at me," he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. "Look at me, Claire."

Her eyes flew open, finding his, green sea fastened on the deep-blue storm. He slid into her without a warning, deep and long and hard, watching her gasp, her back arching to feel more of him, all that she could. Her fingers curled on his size, nails digging into his skin, steering him closer still. She whimpered when his hips jerked forward, filling her whole, claiming her as a part of him.

Claire's stomach twisted into a tight hot knot as he eased back and then pushed into her again, her heels pressing into his thighs, the rug beneath her rough in contrast with his sweat-slick skin. His head dropped down, freeing her, his mouth brushed to her temple as they settled into a rhythm after a few crazy collision, each thrust simultaneously feeling like it was too much and yet leaving her desperate for more. He was still holding one of her arms pinned down, the pace growing faster exponentially and his grunts in her ear making something shatter inside her, the sheer strength of his lust breaking her in half.

With a sloppy kiss to her temple, he slid his hand beneath her sacrum to cushion the force of his movements, and she bit him on the earlobe in the response, Claire's fingers gripping his hair, scaling the lines of his body as she met him rock for rock, each of her breaths coming out as a moan. He felt her clench around him, heard her breath hitch and her body shudder with an outcry of release – his cue to let go, get what he wanted most. And then he was coming apart, inside and all around her, her body pulsing beneath him, searing straight into him, her fingers groping for whatever part of him she could reach as if she could vanish if she didn't hold on tight, carrying him into the depth of sweet oblivion.

Claire hummed when her ability to think started to come back, slow as the process was. "Some boy scout you are, Mr. Grady."

The rumble of his lazy laugher reverberated into her. "Can't be prepared for everything."

"Mmm, you can't," she conceded with a smile, tattooing small kisses along his jaw, still wound tight around him, her mind swimming and her body boneless. "You're heavy."

Owen puffed a breath against her neck, his lips curved. "Let me move."

"No," she rubbed her nose against his cheek. "Don't. It's good."

Still, he slipped away from her, earning a grunt of protest from her. Leaned down to peck Claire on the tip of her nose before he grabbed a quilt from the couch, the one she was wrapped in earlier, and then curled around her, pulling it over their heated bodies and folding her into his embrace.

"Well, I'd say we're in no danger of freezing," he murmured, kissing a spot behind her ear.

Claire sank back into him, her fingers tracing the shape of knuckles of his hand that was resting on her belly, delirious and giddy, her body humming in that pleasant way that was resonating so deep her he didn't know where it ended. Her eyes fixed on the fire dancing not three feet away from them, its heat licking her exposed skin, the colours inside the flames flowing from yellow into golden into orange, holding her transfixed.

"I missed you," Owen mouthed almost soundlessly, his face buried in her hair and his chest moving against her back as he breathed.

"It was dry cleaning," she whispered.

"Hm?"

"Dry cleaning. We had a flight because I asked you to pick my suit from the dry cleaner's and you forgot."

He went still, stiffening as she pulled him into harsh reality of everything he didn't want to remember. Not now, at least. Not when he could feel her with everything that he was, her smooth skin nearly glowing in the soft semi-darkness.

"The black one, with thin stripes," he echoed, his voice hollow.

The sound of their yelling still echoed in his ears, angry and unapologetic. Sharp words cutting through the charged air and sinking into the soft parts from which they could never be pulled out without leaving permanent scars. When a person is stabbed, their first instinct is to pull the knife out, expel it from their body where it didn't belong. However, it was a well-known fact that doing so only increased the risk of bleeding out to death, the open wound so much more dangerous than the alien object that was actually keep it sealed.

It was like they knew it back then, knew the full extent of the damage that trying to step back might cause. And so they kept on stabbing one another until they were bleeding on in inside and tearing at the seams, and knowing that trying to pull those words out would kill them both.

But he forgot about the suit, the one she needed for the meeting the next morning.

It wasn't about the suit, he knew it. The forgotten dry cleaner's ticket crumpled in his pocket was a catalyst, the last push that threw them both over the edge. However, he didn't hate it any less afterwards, needing this one thing to blame their downfall on until the details started to blur and the only memory left behind was Claire's face contorted with anger and his own blood hot in his veins. And how it felt like if he didn't get out of there, he would explode.

Owen's arm flexed around her in half-panic, waiting for Claire to fold in on herself and turn to dust. Instead, she turned her head to press a kiss to the inside of his bicep her head was resting on, her hair soft on his skin.

"I ruined it a month later. Spilled bleach on the skirt," she admitted.

"Retribution," he snorted.

"It was innocent," Claire pressed, amused.

He chuckled; kissed her shoulder. "God, I love you."

Her breath caught in her throat, and the whole room stilled completely around them. "It's the first time you said it."

"What?" Owen asked carefully, scared that he did something wrong. God knew he was a pro at that.

"We lived together for 6 months. We were married, for however short period of time, but you've never said that you loved me before."

He exhaled slowly and said softly, "I thought you knew."

She shook her head and stayed quiet for a while before asking, "Do you think we ever had a chance?"

"Why are you saying it like we're done?"

Owen pulled away from her when she didn't answer, and Claire turned to him and pushed up to sit, holding the quilt against her body like a shield.

"Owen…"

He leaned against the couch and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Do… did this mean nothing at all?" He gestured at them – mussed hair and flushed cheeks and lips swollen from kissing, finger-shaped marks on her skin from when he was holding on to her like his very life depended on it and long scrape lines on his body left by her nails, her kind of branding.

Claire's face fell. "Of course, it did. It meant everything."

His expression hardened as he watched her, his gaze growing heavy. "Did you ever believe in us, Claire? At all?"

"How can you ask that?" Her fingers curled around the quilt.

"I don't know. Maybe that time you demanded a divorce clued me in."

"It wasn't about that."

"Then what was it about?"

"It wasn't meant to be like that," she looked away, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Not with you."

Owen watched her for a few long moments. And then he asked, "So where does this leave us?"

"I don't know," she admitted helplessly and looked at him again. "Do we have to decide it now?"

He let out a long breath and rubbed his eyes. "I supposed not."

Claire cleared her throat. "I'm assuming it would be more comfortable to sleep in a bed than on the floor." Owen offered her a half shrug. She found her eyes, holding his gaze. Her voice was soft when she spoke. "Come with me."

xoox

She had a dream like this once, Claire thought absently. About waking up to Owen's mouth moving along her skin, his breath warm on her neck and his hands reading the lines of her body like braille, knowing exactly where to touch and where to press and where to kiss to make her melt in his arms. For weeks, she would wake up, wrapped up in his scent, hot tears stinging her eyes and her chest aching in that way that made her fear it might just cave in and turn her inside out, so cavernous that black hole of the loss felt.

This morning though, Claire woke up because she was cold. Sometime during the night, the power generator had switched off and the embers in the fireplace turned to ash. She shivered and rubbed her eyes, a cobweb of slumber still clinging to her brain like a thin film. The bed was empty, and so was the room, the grey light streaming through the window softening the sharpness of the world.

Claire kicked off the covers, her body aching pleasantly in all the right places as she reached for Owen's plaid shirt draped over the chair and pulled it on. They hadn't unpacked properly, and she doubted they would, their stuff sitting in a pile by the door. It was one of those days, she could tell, that would be so cold your breath would feel like it was freezing with every puff of air. Even the old wood of the house seemed to be straining in the grip of the weather, creaking and groaning, unable to settle.

She found him in the kitchen, digging through a box of crackers as he waited for the kettle to boil, a jar of instant coffee sitting on the counter. Owen hated that stuff. Said it tasted like shit, and this was something she wholeheartedly agreed with. But there was no coffee maker here, and she figured he thought that instant coffee was better than no coffee at all.

He'd started the fire again, too, the warmth creeping along the chilly floors.

Her arms snaked around him and she pressed to his bare back, seeping in the heat of his body. Her lips trailed across his shoulder blade. "Where'd you go?"

"Got hungry," Owen tossed a cracker in his mouth, his thumb stroking the back of Claire's wrist. Grinned – she could practically hear it. "Worked up quite some appetite last night."

"That's one way to put it." Claire shivered. "How are you not cold?"

"Are you?"

"It's freezing."

Claire Dearing was many things but she decidedly wasn't cut out for the Midwestern climate. Even growing up, she never quite embraced the brutal winters, finding the long months of endless storms and the cold that was snaking its way between the loops of her knitted hat and under the layers beneath her puffed parka nearly unbearable. It was the one thing she'd never missed about home, her trips to Madison sporadic at best, and often neglected.

Even now, it felt unreal somehow, California and Costa Rica engrained so deeply in her mind that the distant memories of the snowball fights in the backyard and hot chocolate at Christmas markets and the frost on the windows that reminded her of lace felt like they belonged to someone else. It was odd to be back here with Owen, like having two worlds that didn't quite belong together collide.

He turned around, strumming his fingers along her arm and past the rolled up sleeves of his shirt until his fingers were buried in her hair, lifting her face up. Claire's mouth stretched into a lazy smile, her heart stuttering for the moment. No one could wear a bedhead quite like Owen, the faint lines in the corners of his eyes making her think of every smile that put them there.

"We can fix that." Owen leaned in to brush a kiss to her brow, tracing his mouth toward her cheek. "Do you really not remember our wedding?" He asked, the sound of his voice like a touch of velvet to her skin.

She turned her head, rubbing her nose into his cheek. "Afraid not."

"Mm-hm." His hand slid down her neck, trialing along the collar of his shirt and toward the button. He flicked it undone, and then the next one, and the next until his hand slipped inside, his palm cupped over Claire's breast as his mouth moved ever so slowly down her neck. He smiled against her skin when her breath hitched, growing short by the moment. "I'll just have to remind you all about it, then."

A soft moan rose in her throat when he pushed her against the wall, his hands now moving with deliberate precision, brushing lightly against her sternum and then her belly, until the shirt flew open and he was all over her, his fingers and mouth drawing intricate patterns on her skin, seemingly trying to be everywhere at once.

"Still doesn't ring a bell?" Owen murmured almost soundlessly as he lowered slowly down on his knees, punctuating his way along her collarbone, between her breasts and down her stomach with slow, hot kisses, the contracts between his mouth and the cool air making her skin ripple.

Claire's eyes fluttered shut, teeth digging into her lip hard until the pain nearly dimmed the sweet, tugging ache in the pit of her stomach. She gripped his hair, her fingers scraping his scalp. "Owen…"

"No."

Claire Dearing didn't relinquish control easily, and never without a fight, but this was the only time when she gave it willingly, offering herself wholly to him, and Owen needed it. Needed it more than anything.

A firm hand on her hip, he held her in place when she tried to move. She whimpered, her senses exploding when his mouth brushed to the sweet spot. He pushed her legs further apart, and her fingers dug deep into his shoulder – for support and to make sure she wasn't washed away by the waves of pleasure rolling over her with every touch, every kiss, his breath on the tender areas adding a whole new layer of sensations.

Claire's breath hitched at the first flick of his tongue against her center, her knees nearly giving in beneath her. She pressed her back into the wall, fingers grazing against the polished wood for support, her breathing nothing but short, ragged pants. She allowed him to take over, letting go completely, surrendering to the fire of aching bliss rolling inside her, turning her blood to molten lava. Owen added his hand to his mouth, easing one finger inside her, and then another with a low growl of possession in the back of his throat as his lips continued to do something entirely magical, bringing Claire close to the brink, but never quite enough - slow agony she couldn't have enough of. He chuckled when her whimper turned into a hiss of satisfaction and a whispered curse when he found the right spot to touch.

And then he was gone, cool air moving along her skin as he stood up. She opened her eyes to find him crowding her against the wall, his eyes wild. He knew how to tame his urges, how to hold back, but now there was nothing about him showing any sign of restraint, and she knew he was just as on the verge as she. Claire's hands were trembling when she reached over to push his boxers down and they pooled at his ankles for a brief moment before Owen stepped out of them, his teeth clenching when her fingers ran along the whole length of him.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, her body throbbing with sweet, pulsing need to feel him inside her. As if sensing her thoughts, Owen slipped his arm into her unbuttoned shirt and around her waist, lifting her effortlessly, holding her against wood panels. Her legs wrapped around his hips, knees gripping his ribs, and he sank into her without a moment of hesitation, watching her eyes go black, pupils blows. She clutched his shoulders and threw her head back when his hips snapped up with a grunt of _finally_ , and then again, and again, breathing hard into her neck until she was coming undone, quaking in his arms, nails scraping over his neck and the sounds she didn't know she was capable of falling from her lips. But Owen was just getting started, his tempo escalating the tighter her walls clenched around him. And then he, too, was spiralling into pure, blinding delight, teeth dragging along the column of her neck, clutching her tight for fear of not being able to hold on. Perfectly happy.

Claire's wobbly feet hit the hardwood floor, fingers groping desperately for his slippery skin as she tried not to collapse to the floor, a giggle rising up in her chest. She leaned her forehead against his curve between his neck and shoulder, her breath raw. Swallowed hard, finding his side with her other hand that was still numb with aftershocks.

"I can't believe you forgot _that_ ," Owen muttered shakily, a huff of hot air grazing the crown of her head.

"We have got to stop doing this," Claire breathed out into his chest. "There's a perfectly comfortable bed…" She trailed off, losing the train of her thought. Owen was leaning heavily on the wall, his forehead pressed into the wood panel hear her head and his hand clutching her shirt in a white-knuckled grip. "I'm all in bruises from… from the floors and walls, and…"

He laughed breathlessly and pulled back to kiss her, his mouth sloppy on hers, a palm curled over her cheek. "We'll try the bed next."

She scoffed. Kissed him back. Tried to catch his eyes, but the world kept tilting sideways around her, unfocused. "I need a shower," she uttered at last, which felt like a very ridiculous thing to say, all things considered. "And so do you."

xoox

Watching Owen in the snow was akin witnessing a kid's first trip to Disneyland – Claire had never seen anyone so excited about it, certainly not in this part of the world. Most people in Wisconsin were sick of it by the beginning of November. However, Owen – who grew up in the south and spent most of his life in the parts of the world that didn't know what the snow was – seemingly couldn't have enough of it.

The temperature had dropped overnight, as Claire knew it would, and the raging storm slowed down to a steady snowfall, not as furious but just as unkind as the day before. She watched Owen scoop a handful of it in his bare palm – because it felt more real that way, he'd told her – clumping it into a snowball, his expression practically wondrous. She shivered, chilly even in roughly ten layers of clothes, and stuffed her hands deeper into the pockets of her parka, pulling her head deeper into her neck, wishing she were a turtle.

She'd called Karen after breakfast – which was messy and fun and she wished it never ended – and had her sister confirm what she already knew. The snowplows were doing their best, but for the safety of everyone involved, the roadblock was still very much in place, effectively trapping those who made it to the resorts there and cutting off the rest of the world. Another day maybe, Karen told her. And in all honesty, right now Claire wouldn't have minded if it was another week.

Gray was devastated though, and she felt a pang of guilt over basically stealing the fun that was meant for him and that she and Owen couldn't care less about. Still, she allowed him to drag her outside, his excitement infectious and so endearing she couldn't resist.

Owen walked over to her, the snow squeaking under the soles of his winter boots. In the freezing afternoon, she could hear the white clouds of their breath crystalize between them and the snowflakes melt on her eyelashes. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and his hair sticking out comically from beneath the knitted beanie hat, damp with the thawing snow, his eye bright with glee.

He threw his head back to catch the snow with his mouth, and when he kissed her, holding her close by the ends of her scarf, she could taste on his tongue.

"You'd think that someone who grew up here would have better endurance for this weather," he noted, a few hours later when they were back in the cabin and the fire was once again crackling merrily in the fireplace, sending bursts of sparkles into the chimney every time the logs shifted, devoured by the force beyond their control.

Stretched on the couch, with Claire sprawled on his chest dressed in nothing but his hoodie, their limbs tanged and her head tucked under his chin, he was running his hand lazily over her hair.

"Why did you think I moved?" Claire grumbled.

There was more to it, of course. A long list of reasons she hadn't thought of in over a decade. But they all seemed distant and pale now, so faint she couldn't see them clearly anymore. Like feeling trapped in town that never felt big enough, the desire to start over in a place where no one knew her, or had any idea of what she was like when she was 5 and skinner knees after falling from her bike. Big as it was for Wisconsin, Madison was still a tiny dot on the map of the world that barely knew it even existed. She'd always wanted more, even though this whole past year was a screaming reminder of 'be careful what you wish for'.

She tightened her grip on Owen and pressed her face into the crook of his neck – in search for warmth, but even more so to revel in the familiar warmth of his body, the steady rising and falling of his chest beneath her and the scent of his skin. If it was even possible to be homesick for a person, this was what it was, Claire thought. All those months.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, chucking under his breath.

"What?" She asked.

"I've always wanted to get you in my bungalow," he reminded her, and Claire groaned, remembering that – his glaringly inappropriate innuendos that used to make her see red. "Now, this ain't my bungalow, but it's close enough."

She poked him in the ribs. "You wish."

"Come on. I know you were tempted."

She craned her neck to look him in the face, mock insulted. "For your information, _Mr. Grady_ …"

Is finger slipped underneath her chin and his mouth snagged hers in a slow, lazy kiss that stole her breath away. "You were saying?"

She swallowed, her gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips. "At least we've moved on from all the hard surfaces," she murmured with a small smile.

Owen wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, and she rolled her eyes.

"We need a tree," he said absently when she pulled away with one last peck and settled into his embrace again.

"We're not staying here for Christmas," Claire stated firmly, her eyes roaming absently around the room. Her cheek was pressed to his bare skin, listening to the steady beating of his heart. Warm at last after their walk, she felt like she was going to melt right into him. her mind still fuzzy after the night of little sleep and trying to figure out what exactly was happening here.

"Maybe not," he agreed easily. He tucked his arm under his head, his hand running up and down her back. "But we'll need one for wherever we'll be."

"Owen…. Was there really no one else?"

He sucked in a breath.

"God … No. There couldn't be." He brushed her hair from her face, looping around her ear, his eyes following the gentle slope of her forehead all the way down to the delicately upturned tip of her nose, the dusting of the freckles on her cheeks glowing golden in the firelight – all he could see from this angle, drinking her up until the image was seared in his mind. "It's always been you."

Her nimble fingers skimmed over his shoulder as she turned his words in her head. This was the hardest thing, Claire had to admit. Not his habits, and not hers; not the fact that he forgot to put the cap on the toothpaste tube sometimes and loved anchovy on pizza or that she worked the nights and weekends, which was driving him nuts.

The truth was that Claire's trust issues had trust issues. It wasn't about Owen, not really, but he was caught up stark in the middle of the hurricanes raging inside her. It was easier and far less terrifying to believe that he wouldn't want to stay rather than to think that he would. Because no one else had before.

"I never wanted you gone," she murmured into his chest, brushing a kiss to whatever skin she could reach.

"But last night you said-" She felt his muscles tense momentarily, and her fingers flexed, brushing against his skin as if he could disappear.

"I can't keep losing you, Owen. Every time it happens, it chips away at something inside me. On the island, I've lost count of how many times I thought you were dead, and I don't think I can do it again." She could feel him with every cell of her body, his confusion resonating with hers. There were not right answers, she was starting to realize. The best you could do was try your best and hope it wasn't a hit a miss. She's been trying to compartmentalize her whole life for as long as Claire remembered herself, and not once did it work the way she wanted it to. The only problem with doing the opposite was that it was far more terrifying. "I didn't want you to prove me right, but I also did because it was the only thing I ever knew."

"So I failed on all accounts," he said, which came out as half a question.

"No." The resignation in his voice all but broke Claire, her chest tight and the things she was feeling finding it hard to translate into words. "But I needed to figure it out for myself."

"Have you?"

Claire hesitated. "I'm getting there," she admitted. Which wasn't much but it was all she had, and maybe right now it was enough.

He stayed quiet for a while, the silence around them interrupted only by the occasionally by the low hum of the old fridge, and the house creaking around them as the shadows continued to grow, sucking them into purple dusk.

"We're still gonna need a tree, you know," Owen spoke just as she stared to think that he must have dozed off. He tilted her face up, kissed her, feeling a small smile that started to blossom on her lips. He ran her thumb over her cheekbone, his gaze fastened on the sea of green in her eyes that was holding him captive.

"That can be arranged."

xoox

Gray was the first one to bounce off the porch steps the moment their car pulled into the Mitchels' driveway in the late afternoon the next day, hatless, his coat unzipped.

"Owen! Aunt Claire!"

Claire stepped into the frigid twilight and ruffled the boy's hair affectionately.

"Finally," Karen hummed, lingering just outside the front door in her knitted sweater, arms wrapped around her shoulders for warmth and eyes squinted against the gusts of winter wind.

"I can't believe you got stuck there," Gray breathed out, his expression wondrous. Like it was some kind of adventure he couldn't wait to go on, stained by the fact that he hadn't been able to enjoy it. "Was it scary?"

"Oh, they were probably too busy to notice," Zach scoffed, joining them, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his navy-blue jeans, and Claire's cheeks grew hot. The sex talk with her nephews still somewhat of an uncharted territory.

"What do you know?" Gray rolled his eyes. Then looked up at Claire. "You're staying for Christmas, right, Aunt Claire? You can't leave now, you just got here."

She turned to Owen, one eyebrow arched curiously. He smirked, holding her gaze for an extra moment as she responded to her nephew, "I believe we could pencil you in."

"So, are you an Owen okay?" Gray asked quietly as she stirred him toward the porch where Karen was ushering Zach inside and telling Gray to either zip up the coat properly or get into the house 'this very moment'.

Arms wrapped around the boy's shoulders, she looked at him quizzically. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "You seemed… weird when you first came on Friday," he said. "I thought you were fighting."

Claire glanced over her shoulder at Owen who was following them up the path, his bag slung over his shoulder and her suitcase in his hand. "We're good," she assured him when Owen caught her looking. "I promise." And then, "You want to go get the tree tomorrow?"

 **The end**

* * *

 **A/N:** _I hope you'll like how this story ends, and please let me know what you think!_


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